her shoulder. “That’s all right, Babe. Patsy may have a TV camera following her about like a shadow, but what does she know of the bino mial theorem?”
“Not a damn thing,” Patsy answered cheerfully.
“A beautiful thing, the binomial theorem,” Michael put in. “Sheer poetry.”
“It is not,” Patsy said positively. “Wordsworth is poetry. And Yeats. Not the biniminal theory—or Rick Montoya’s swing, either.”
Michael winced as if in acute pain. “Binomial, Patsy. Not biniminal.”
“Whatever,” Patsy said sunnily, and smiled. It was her best smile, the one that usually reduced men to quivering jellies at her feet.
Michael said blandly, “The camera is thataway,” and went back to watching the game.
Patsy stared at his faintly hawk-like profile and inwardly fumed. He had been much nicer when he was younger, she thought.
The Yankee pitcher retired three men in a row in the top of the ninth and the game was over, the Yankees winning three to one. As they left their seats, Michael and Sally absorbingly discussed the team’s prospects for the coming season, while Patsy and Steve walked behind them, chatting casually.
“Where did you park your car?” Steve asked Patsy as they reached the sidewalk.
“Nowhere,” Patsy replied. “I took a cab.”
“A cab?” Steve frowned. “You’re never going to find another taxi in this crowd.”
Sally had overheard the last part of this exchange. “We’d run you home, Patsy, but I promised the baby-sitter we’d be back before six. If we delay any longer, we’re going to hit the rush.”
“That’s okay, Sally. If I can’t find a cab, there’s always the subway.”
“The subway,” Steve said darkly. Like all suburbanites he held the view that the subways were only slightly less dangerous than Beirut under siege.
Michael laughed. “Not everyone who rides the subway is inevitably raped or murdered,” he said to his brother-in-law. “However, to soothe your jangled nerves, I will drive Patsy home.”
“So chivalrous,” murmured Patsy, who hadn’t taken her car precisely because she wanted things to fall out this way.
“Sometimes I even astonish myself,” he replied. “Come on, my car is this way.” After a round of thanks and promises to call soon, Patsy left the Maxwells and followed Michael to the lot where he had left his car.
Traffic around the stadium was heavy and it took them quite a long time to get out of the Bronx and into Manhattan. Michael didn’t say much; he had turned on the radio and appeared to be listening to the music. Patsy rested her head against her seat and watched him drive. His car had a standard shift and he let the clutch in and out automatically, changing gears with easy competence, his mind clearly on something else.
“When you traveled,” he said abruptly, “who made your arrangements—plane fare, hotels, so forth?”
She stirred slightly. “Fred, of course.”
“You went on vacation last year to Africa?”
“Yes. To the Serengeti game preserve. Then I spent some time in Egypt.”
“Mmm. And Fred made all the arrangements?”
“Yes.” Her brown eyes looked troubled. “Why are you asking me this, Michael?”
He changed the subject. “Do you have a bank account in the Cayman Islands?”
“Of course not!” She was beginning to sound impatient. “Why on earth should I have an account there? I’ve never even been to the Cayman Islands.”
“The Cayman Islands operate a banking system not unlike Switzerland’s.” His voice was expression less. “No names are used—only numbers. You can stash quite a lot of money in a numbered bank account, and there’s no way the IRS will know it’s there. You’re supposed to report the account, of course, but very few do.”
“Well, I don’t have an account like that,” she repeated.
“When I went to Zimmerman’s office the other night, I cleaned out all his files pertaining to you. One of the things I found was a bank book from the
“Not a damn thing,” Patsy answered cheerfully.
“A beautiful thing, the binomial theorem,” Michael put in. “Sheer poetry.”
“It is not,” Patsy said positively. “Wordsworth is poetry. And Yeats. Not the biniminal theory—or Rick Montoya’s swing, either.”
Michael winced as if in acute pain. “Binomial, Patsy. Not biniminal.”
“Whatever,” Patsy said sunnily, and smiled. It was her best smile, the one that usually reduced men to quivering jellies at her feet.
Michael said blandly, “The camera is thataway,” and went back to watching the game.
Patsy stared at his faintly hawk-like profile and inwardly fumed. He had been much nicer when he was younger, she thought.
The Yankee pitcher retired three men in a row in the top of the ninth and the game was over, the Yankees winning three to one. As they left their seats, Michael and Sally absorbingly discussed the team’s prospects for the coming season, while Patsy and Steve walked behind them, chatting casually.
“Where did you park your car?” Steve asked Patsy as they reached the sidewalk.
“Nowhere,” Patsy replied. “I took a cab.”
“A cab?” Steve frowned. “You’re never going to find another taxi in this crowd.”
Sally had overheard the last part of this exchange. “We’d run you home, Patsy, but I promised the baby-sitter we’d be back before six. If we delay any longer, we’re going to hit the rush.”
“That’s okay, Sally. If I can’t find a cab, there’s always the subway.”
“The subway,” Steve said darkly. Like all suburbanites he held the view that the subways were only slightly less dangerous than Beirut under siege.
Michael laughed. “Not everyone who rides the subway is inevitably raped or murdered,” he said to his brother-in-law. “However, to soothe your jangled nerves, I will drive Patsy home.”
“So chivalrous,” murmured Patsy, who hadn’t taken her car precisely because she wanted things to fall out this way.
“Sometimes I even astonish myself,” he replied. “Come on, my car is this way.” After a round of thanks and promises to call soon, Patsy left the Maxwells and followed Michael to the lot where he had left his car.
Traffic around the stadium was heavy and it took them quite a long time to get out of the Bronx and into Manhattan. Michael didn’t say much; he had turned on the radio and appeared to be listening to the music. Patsy rested her head against her seat and watched him drive. His car had a standard shift and he let the clutch in and out automatically, changing gears with easy competence, his mind clearly on something else.
“When you traveled,” he said abruptly, “who made your arrangements—plane fare, hotels, so forth?”
She stirred slightly. “Fred, of course.”
“You went on vacation last year to Africa?”
“Yes. To the Serengeti game preserve. Then I spent some time in Egypt.”
“Mmm. And Fred made all the arrangements?”
“Yes.” Her brown eyes looked troubled. “Why are you asking me this, Michael?”
He changed the subject. “Do you have a bank account in the Cayman Islands?”
“Of course not!” She was beginning to sound impatient. “Why on earth should I have an account there? I’ve never even been to the Cayman Islands.”
“The Cayman Islands operate a banking system not unlike Switzerland’s.” His voice was expression less. “No names are used—only numbers. You can stash quite a lot of money in a numbered bank account, and there’s no way the IRS will know it’s there. You’re supposed to report the account, of course, but very few do.”
“Well, I don’t have an account like that,” she repeated.
“When I went to Zimmerman’s office the other night, I cleaned out all his files pertaining to you. One of the things I found was a bank book from the
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